


Habit

by HanzobarMoustache



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Overthinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 16:59:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18077396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HanzobarMoustache/pseuds/HanzobarMoustache
Summary: Hanzo overthinks something.





	Habit

McCree did this... _thing_. This small habit born from years upon years of taking up space with his body and presence. It wasn't even something that caused any sort of disruption like his raucous laughter could. Honestly, it was likely nothing, hardly something to notice, but Hanzo found that he noticed more about the cowboy nowadays.

Whenever he sat at a table, McCree would rest his prosthetic hand on the tabletop. At first, Hanzo had thought this practice was relegated to when McCree ate only. His days with Deadlock could surely leave a lingering habit to leave a hand near his plate ready to slap away other fingers roaming a little too close to his daily bread.

But, no. No, McCree always did it. In debriefs, at dinner, talking to the rest of the team over a cup of joe, reading in the cafeteria late in the night when sleep eluded the best of them. McCree kept his hand on the table, would cross his fingers when he wanted to remember something, would curl his hand into a fist when he and someone else at the table started a well-meaning argument, would slap his hand against the tabletop hard enough to shake the table when a fit of giggles got the best of him.

Perhaps Hanzo put too much thought into this, but he could not help it. Always, he placed himself to the left of the cowboy. And always that arm sat between them.

It was driving him mad.

Through every meal, every conversation, every briefing, McCree's hand was on the table. Always, his palm would be against the wood or metal or plastic, rough fingers scratching against the surface, ready for him to press down and hurtle himself away from his seat and off on his way.

Today, McCree's palm was facing up.

Hanzo had, initially, thought he had been seeing things. It seemed so unusual, but none of the others had so much as glanced at his hand. It was nothing, then, and yet it was also such a change that Hanzo nearly knocked over his tea as he stared. McCree cocked an eyebrow, but his gaze didn't linger on the oddly-jittery archer.

It was given that anyone could get a bit finicky around Gibraltar. Hanzo was no exception.

He tried to eat, but he couldn't focus. It gnawed at his stomach that such a small, insignificant thing was getting to him.

But- why? Why was McCree's palm up? Why did Hanzo feel like it looked empty? Why did he want to put his own hand in McCree's so badly.

Was it an invitation?

Fuck it.

Hanzo started slowly, carefully putting his own hand on the table next to McCree's. It felt strange enough he nearly wrenched his hand back, but he steeled himself against the thought. It was one of those rare off-days for Overwatch; McCree tended to linger in the cafeteria. Hanzo had time.

Genji snickered, and Hanzo froze, glancing up.

Fortunately, it seemed Genji was the only one who'd noticed. Everyone else at the table − Lúcio, Mei, and Hana − was blind to Hanzo's actions.

Genji's eyes, exposed since he had taken to walking around without his faceplate, twinkled mercilessly. He was smiling, laughing even when Hanzo answered that smile with a scowl. Genji excused himself for meditation with Zenyatta, patting Hanzo's shoulder as he passed.

McCree's hand absently waved him off, and Hanzo felt his breath hitch. McCree's hand fell back to the table, almost resting flat but turning at the last moment. His palm pointed to the ceiling. So he was doing this deliberately.

Hanzo tried to catch his eye, though he wasn't sure what he'd do afterwards. Ask him telepathically what he was doing? He certainly couldn't trust his mouth to form words at the moment. McCree was too engrossed in a discussion of what was proper country music to look over at the archer.

Hanzo took a breath. He glanced away when he placed his hand in McCree's. McCree immediately curled his fingers around Hanzo's hand, rubbing his thumb against his skin idly.

Hanzo allowed himself to smile. Gradually, people began filing out. Lúcio had an album to work on. Hana had to set up a charity livestream. Mei had scheduled a video call with a British colleague to discuss a freak snowstorm over Australia. Eventually, it was just Hanzo and McCree, alone in the cafeteria, sharing the silence.

McCree hadn't said a word about it yet. Hanzo was beginning to doubt if he would. He stared down at his empty cup, tea run out a few minutes ago, wondering if he should just pull his hand back. If McCree had been silent because he was irritated.

McCree rolled his shoulder, yawning, bringing up his prosthesis to kiss Hanzo's knuckles. "You didn't hafta hold my hand, sweetheart."

"I wanted to." Hanzo spoke too quickly, watching McCree bring up his other hand to rest his chin on it.

McCree smiled, pressing another kiss to the back of Hanzo's hand. "Well, I'll be damned. Thank you, then."

"It is nothing." Even as he said it, Hanzo knew that wasn't true.

**Author's Note:**

> Working on clearing files from my old phone. This was on it, and I've uploaded it verbatim.


End file.
